A Time to Die

by Nadine Brandes

  “We’ll be fine, especially with Willow and Elm bringing the supplies later.”

  Days pass and the trees thicken. I grow more and more tense. “Are you sure you know the way?” I didn’t travel this long when I first crossed, did I?

  He remains calm. “Yes.” But more days roll on and his yeses accompany a self-spoken whisper. “We should be there soon. Any day now.”

  One morning, we rise to grey clouds. The brisk weather seems appropriate as I glance at my watch. “Wow, it’s September twenty-fifth. Today marks the fifth permanent zero on my Clock.”

  Jude shudders and meets my gaze with wide eyes. “September . . . twenty-fifth?”

  “Yeah.” I give a wobbly smile, but we both know what this means. I have nine days until my Good-bye.

  I’m in the single digits.

  Skelley Chase will be waiting at the Wall soon. So will Tawny. And Reid. And Mother. And Father. I can’t seem to bring their faces to mind. They stand in shadows.

  Is nine days long enough to build a form of survival for the Radicals and to save Reid?

  It’s not raining yet, but Jude is rigid as he rolls up his bed pelts. “September twenty-fifth,” he says almost to himself. “I know this date.”

  My head snaps up. “You do?” Goosebumps lift each hair on my body like a beacon. “Why . . . do you . . . think you know it?”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know,” he says in a rush. “Maybe I don’t.”

  I can’t bring myself to ask if this is the day he zeroes out. He said himself he couldn’t remember when. It could be after I cross. We’re in the middle of nowhere in a forest. We’re safe.

  Jude favors his shoulder with each movement. Maybe the pain is agitating him. “Do you need to take a couple white pills?”

  He considers this and takes out the small pouch before hoisting his pack onto his shoulders. “No. You should carry them, actually.”

  “Why? I don’t need them.” Even so, I consider sneaking a few for my sore muscles and occasional arm spasms.

  “I’d prefer you hold on to them.”

  I shrug and tuck them into one of my many skirt pockets.

  He leads the way without a moment for breakfast. Perhaps he wants to beat the rain. “Are we close to the Wall?”

  “It should be within our sight soon.” His pace is so quick it makes me dwell again on our goal: Reach the Wall and create some sort of survival option for the Radicals before I go through.

  I imagine Jude’s orphans, eighteen and alone, standing on the ledge and, instead of seeing death below them, they find a bridge leading to a small hut on the plateau with information and food. Hope.

  Eighteen. That’s my age. What would I have given for hope before this journey? You gave it to me through the West, God. This is something I can give them.

  Jude weaves his numb fingers into mine. I look at his face. His brow is wrinkled. We must look funny to an outsider with our missing limbs. At least we can hold hands.

  This time, I’m not awkward. I squeeze his hand. He lifts mine to his lips and kisses the back of it. My stomach twirls and I look at my feet.

  As the day progresses Jude shares tips on tightrope walking and explains how to tie secure knots. The clouds leak their tears onto us, but Jude keeps trudging and talking.

  “It shouldn’t have taken this long, but I think I know the way now. I forgot a few directions. Probably the pirate chip, but I know the way now.”

  I clench my teeth against the question, Do you really know the way?

  He sighs. “Parvin . . . forgive me. I’m sorry I pushed you when we were traveling . . . and yelled at you. I’m sorry I’ve forgotten important things. Solomon told me to look out for you, to protect you. I haven’t done a good job.”

  I tug on his arm to make him stop and turn toward me. The rims of his eyes are red, but his eyes are dry. Wrinkles of strain and hopelessness stand out in his young skin.

  “Stop that.” I cup my hand on his cheek, breathing in the thrill of touch. “Do we need to rest? It’s past noon and we still haven’t eaten.”

  His lips are tight and his jaw fights small quivers. He nods.

  I follow him to a small clearing of trees, watching the back of his head as if I can monitor his emotional state. His brokenness reminds me of when he was shot in the Dregs. His fear and tears were all raw. I was the strong one. Is he afraid of returning to the East? Is this remorse something more?

  We sit in silence, eating the last of our dried meat and carrots. To give Jude some privacy to rest and stabilize, I send Skelley Chase my last journal entry.

  9.28.2149 – 13:53

  I’m on my way home. I had to come because Skelley Chase is threatening to kill Reid if I don’t.

  He’ll probably cut out that sentence before publishing it, but I include it anyway.

  I found out my brother is married. I want to meet his wife. She’ll be waiting for me on the other side of the Wall. This journey has felt like another life. It’s strange traveling through the scenery where it started. Thank you, everyone, who has traveled this with me. Hopefully . . . maybe . . . I’ll see you on the other side.

  I don’t know what else to write. I don’t want to share our plans to save Radicals, I can’t mention Jude because of the shooter. I guess this is enough. I press the Send/Save button. Jude is already packing up the remains of our meal. I stand up. The stillness of resting invited the cold from the misting rain back into my bones, though I’m thankful we haven’t reached a downpour. I consider putting on my Vitality suit before we continue to help manage the cold.

  I pull it from my pack and, when I straighten, Jude stands in front of me, close enough to brush noses if I hiccup too strongly.

  “Parvin . . .” His husky voice sends shivers running through me.

  I force myself not to move forward or backward. I look into his face. He’s breathing fast and sweat lines his forehead, or is it rain? His fingers startle me when they curl a stray strand of hair behind my ear.

  This action increases my nervousness and I step back, breathless. “Yes?”

  He seems to catch himself and withdraws from the intimacy. I bite my lip. “I . . . I’m glad I met you.” His voice has lost the throaty tone and sounds embarrassed. “And . . . I want to give this to you.” He holds out the whistle he carved.

  I close my fingers around the smooth wood, running my thumb over the indented holes. It’s such a gentle gift. Why is it for me? “Thank you,” I whisper.

  He gestures to my NAB. “I know you knew Solomon first but . . . I hope you’ve found my company pleasant, too.”

  My throat squeezes. “I have.”

  “Are you ready to continue?” His heart doesn’t sound in it. He doesn’t look ready to move at all. If anything, he looks worse than when we first sat down to rest. Maybe the rain is chilling his wound.

  “Yes.” What broke between us when I stepped back? Why did he come so near? Was he going to say something else? What spurred this closeness?

  “Good, because you’re going alone.”

  I straighten. “What? Why?”

  He shuts his eyes tight. “Because I can’t put you in danger. I’m dangerous. This is your pilgrimage and you have to finish it by yourself.”

  “No! You think you zero out today, don’t you?” This explains his momentary tenderness. He was saying good-bye before deserting me. “Please don’t leave me.”

  “I have to. It’s not about zeroing out.”

  I reach for him. “I won’t go without you.”

  He lifts his chin and looks away. “I’m set, Parvin. You need to do this for the Radicals, for the orphans. For Reid.”

  Fighting the downward swirl of despair, I hold up the Vitality suit and ask in a hollow voice, “Do you mind if I change? To keep me going through this weather?”

  His tone turns sharp lik
e a leader. “Be quick about it.”

  I swallow. “Could you turn your back, then?” I plan to pull the suit over my leggings and undershirt, but still feel exposed doing this in front of another person. Especially Jude.

  Maybe, in putting on the suit, I can convince him that I have extra protection. Maybe, after it’s on, I can persuade him to continue.

  He turns around and I find my learned skill of dressing with one arm annoyingly impaired. He keeps his back to me, but his right hand clutches the hem of his coat.

  He wants me to leave. My eyes smart. Does he think this is best?

  “Okay,” I murmur.

  “Okay.” Jude turns to face me.

  “It’s not okay,” says a voice behind me.

  I start and, before I can turn around, an arm wraps around my torso. Something sharp presses into the side of my neck. I jerk away from the point, but the captor follows my movement.

  “Don’t struggle,” he says in a collected voice and the sharp weapon pierces my skin with a twinge. “There’s now a needle in your neck. If you flinch, jerk, or pull away it will snap in half and you may even end up swallowing it.”

  Black dots fly across my vision. His arm is firm, pressing my ribcage together and stilting my breath. It’s his voice that ices my nerves. I heard it on the ledge of the Dregs before he shot Jude with a pirate chip. I remember his smooth gaze on the Ivanhoe train platform.

  No.

  Jude stands frozen before me, staring over my shoulder. “Let her go. She was about to leave.” His eyes flick to my neck.

  “Hello, Hawke.” The assassin wiggles the needle enough to keep me aware of its presence and to churn my stomach contents into poison.

  My eyes snap wide open. “Hawke?” But the small movement bumps the needle and I whimper back into silence. Is Hawke here to help us? I look around the clearing, trying to spot his tall shadowed form, but the brief flare of hope quenches when Jude speaks.

  “Hello.” Jude jerks his head toward me. “Let her go.”

  “A valiant request, but we both know that won’t happen. When my pirate chip took your memory of your Numbers, the leverage opportunity was too good to pass up.” He holds an emotigraph in front of my face. “Plus, your girl gave me this.”

  It’s a picture of Ivanhoe—the one I lost when riding the Ivanhoe Independent.

  “Every time I click it, the first emotion has your name swimming through it—Jude. I knew wherever she’d be, you’d be. You’ve been together too long. She may know something. Give me what I want or I’ll take it from her.”

  I struggle to maintain focus on the conversation, even though my understanding is shaken by the usage of the name, Hawke. I scan Jude’s face. He’s not Hawke. They look completely different. They have different names, but the assassin speaks only to him.

  “Is it what you want? Or what the Council wants?”

  The assassin moves, possibly in a shrug. “Both. I want their money; they want your information. The pirate chip gathered a little of what I needed, but then its signal went dead. You fought hard, but not hard enough.”

  Information. “Jude, don’t.” I speak soft enough that the needle stays in place.

  “Let me speak plainly, so that we all know how this is going to work.” The assassin’s warm breath battles the ice of raindrops on my ear.

  He wiggles the needle again and a high-pitched squeal escapes my throat. My skin feels violated by its presence, but I’m afraid to jerk away. “This is a syringe with a toxic injection designed for situations like this. As you can see, it’s quite full. The longer it takes you to give me the rest of your information, the more I insert into her neck, and the faster she’ll die. For example . . .”

  A pressure fills my neck, hitting my nerves like a branding iron.

  “That”—says the assassin—“is one-tenth of the toxin. Over the course of two weeks, it will eat away her nervous system, shutting down the function of her brain, until she finally dies. Now, if I follow Miss Blackwater’s X-book right, she should have nine days left to her supposed Clock. So far, she’s not a dead woman, but”—another ounce of pressure hits the walls of my neck muscles—“she could be soon. Shall we find out if the Clock is really hers, Mr. Hawke?”

  “Stop.” Jude reaches out with his hand. “Please stop.”

  “Jude?” I croak. Jude Hawke? I can’t ignore what I heard. I want to understand, but with a syringe in my neck, I ignore my curiosity. “You heard what he said. I have nine days. He can’t kill me even if he wanted to.”

  Both Jude and the assassin are silent. Jude looks in my eyes—a tender look similar to the one he gave mere minutes ago when we were inches apart.

  The assassin’s left hand releases me for a moment and flicks something small at Jude’s feet. Then his arm returns like a rubber band around my chest. “I’m waiting.”

  “No!” I shout and swallow a moan as the needle shoots another squirt into my neck. I imagine sickly liquid mixing with my blood, confusing my nerves, and swimming toward my brain.

  “We’re now at two-tenths, Hawke. That’s another pirate chip at your feet. Uncap the needles and push them into the base of your skull. It will do the rest.”

  Jude looks down at the small green square—another invention of the High City. “Just . . . a pirate chip?”

  “Jude! Think about the orphans and Radicals you’re protecting.”

  He bends down. His hand quivers and it takes two tries to pick up the chip. His face is scrunched and pale.

  “Stop, Jude.” My voice is harsh. I’m angry. What is he doing? Is he worried I’ll die? “Don’t think about me.”

  “I always think about you.” He looks up and the thick emotion in his eyes reminds me of the look Solomon Hawke gave when I was dragged out of the Containment Center. That’s when I connect it.

  They’re brothers. I’m blind. They’re brothers.

  “If that chip isn’t in your skull in five seconds, she gets a double dose.”

  “Why are there two needles on here?” Jude holds up the pirate chip. The assassin doesn’t answer, but after a brief pause, Jude lets out a soft, “Ah.” He smiles in a sad way. “So today is the day. Now I’ll finally find out who has power over the Clocks.”

  “Clocks are power.” The toxin the assassin pushes into my vein blurs my vision, or maybe it’s my stomach churning. All I know is the next words out of my mouth come in a desperate wheeze. “I’m going to be sick.”

  Perhaps the assassin hears it in my voice or he sees this with his other victims, but the needle slides out of my skin as I collapse on the forest floor and vomit into the dead leaves. The hammer of a gun clicks above me and I don’t need to look to know he has both Jude and me covered in case we try to bolt.

  Upon the exertion of my last cough, a knee presses me into the ground, my face inches from my own sick. The needle enters my neck.

  “Half of this is now in her body, Hawke. She’s got four days. Do you want to lessen that?”

  Four days, I think in a daze, trying to straighten my thought. That’s not enough. My fingertips grow numb and tingle. Something is spinning.

  “No I don’t,” I croak, but I can’t remember what I’m arguing.

  “Dose number five,” the assassin shouts in growing anger.

  “Hold off!” Jude yells. “You’ll get your information.” In an undertone, he says, “. . . and I’ll get mine.”

  “No!” I screech against the movement of the needle. “No, Jude!” I twist to look up at him, but he avoids my eyes.

  He uncaps the needles. I suddenly don’t care if the syringe snaps inside my neck. I fight the assassin with my draining power, pushing with both arms. Stump and hand both sink in the wet dirt.

  “Jude, don’t!” My muscles collapse. “Your orphans will die! He can’t kill me. It’s a trick. Please. Don’t give up now! Not after sacrif
icing your entire life to protect this—” My voice is cut off with a groan as another choking toxin dose causes my muscles to shriek.

  “Shut up! She got another for that, Hawke.”

  “Please . . . please stop.” Scuffle comes from where Jude is and the needle sinks deeper into my neck. Jude’s movement halts and he groans. “The chip is in.”

  The assassin digs his knee into my spine, keeping me pressed into the earth like a trodden twig, and flops something onto the ground with his free hand. An electronic whirring reaches my ears. When the assassin speaks next it’s with triumph in his voice. “Very good. A few more seconds.”

  The trickling string of hope inside me swirls into black despair. Jude gave up. His life work. The lives of his orphans. The lives of innocent Radicals. He’s gone against his family. Against me.

  He didn’t listen.

  “Parvin.” His voice is a hollow breath. “I don’t have faith in your Clock like you do. And I can’t risk your life, even if it means giving up this information. Please . . . don’t hate me. Remember to hope. Remember Who is stronger.”

  The assassin slips the syringe out of my neck. “Perfect. The sappy farewell has been given and the information is downloaded.”

  I remain, numb, on the ground.

  “She has two days. And you have ten seconds, Hawke.”

  Jude runs toward us. For a fleeting instant, I flare with hope that he has a backup plan. He’s about to tackle the assassin and crush the electrobook that just drank the secrets of his mind.

  Instead, Jude rolls me over and brushes the leaves off my face. Before my eyes can focus, a tear drops on my forehead. He kisses my cheek below my eye as if he’s desperate to gift me a kiss no matter where it lands. His lips leave my skin and he takes a quick breath to whisper, “Tally ho, Parvin-girl. I’ll see you soon.”

  “Why?” Why did he give up?

  His voice is soft by my ear. “Ask Solomon.”

  Two loud pops split the air. My eyes focus in time to see Jude blink once slowly, but when his eyelids lift he’s a blank mannequin with the echoes of concern-wrinkles fading like forgotten time. Life is supplanted by breathless silence. And heartbeat is replaced by inert body weight slumping against my chest.